


Not Answering

by blueskiessunshine (rainydayrambling)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainydayrambling/pseuds/blueskiessunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With every day that passed without a word from Cas, the nightmares got worse, and came more frequently.  Dean thought he was doing a decent job of hiding it during the day, but if they had still been in motel rooms every night, Sam would have been all too aware of what was going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Answering

Dean didn’t wake quickly – he never did anymore. The nightmares came so many nights a week, so many times a night, that his body had trained itself to fight against them. There was no easy out these days. Dredging himself out of nightmares was like crawling out of the earth after Hell – a slow, airless process colored with confusion and desperation to be anywhere, anywhere else.

Waking up was not dissimilar to that first glare of Illinois sun either. On this particular night, he woke with the same screaming headache he’d had that day four years ago. One thing was different though.

Four years ago, his mind had been filled with the screams and blood of souls on the rack. Four years ago, he hadn’t known that an angel of the Lord was waiting to meet him at a gas station.

Now it was that very angel that sent him into the nightmares in the first place.

Awake now (and he knew he was awake because he could remember all of the nightmares from the past hour or so), Dean kept his eyes closed and tightened his arms on the pillow they were wrapped around. Now that they had the bat cave, and Dean had his own room, he had taken to gripping the pillow every night. Some nights it seemed to help, but Dean had learned fast to push away the instant of wishful thinking that struck him in the gut most mornings.

For a moment, he considered getting up, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, or scotch, or even just grabbing a beer. If nothing else, it might help him get back to sleep. He didn’t look at the clock, but he imagined it had only been about an hour since the last time he woke up.

But he decided to stay in bed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get back to sleep just yet.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to see what he knew would be waiting for him. Oh, it changed, sometimes. But it was always Cas, and it was always bloody.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Dean tried not to think of Cas broken and bleeding in his arms – or worse, alone, in Heaven, with no one beside him and no one to even try to lie and say it would be all right, and no one to tell him they cared that he’d be gone. No one to tell him he mattered.

Dean felt the absence like a physical presence beside him, but one that radiated cold and stabs of fear instead of that warmth he knew like a part of him, warmth that could melt the tension from him like slipping into a bath at the end of a long day. It was less about temperature and more about familiarity and what it felt like to belong. But that was all just words, because it was gone, whatever it was.

The worst part was that the ache in the lowest cavity of his chest – the ache he tried so hard to push away, ignore, abuse until it left him – rose up with a vengeance in these moments. It had become so much a part of him, that ache, that he hardly new what it was made of anymore.

It might have been worry, anger, shame, despair – it might have been homesickness. It was probably a bit of everything.

What he knew was that it disappeared in a flash of lightness that felt suspiciously like flight whenever Cas showed up – and then flared up again when Cas (inevitably) left.

For a while, Dean had thought that drinking would help. It always had before, at least a little. But it soon became clear it wouldn’t be so easy this time. (Apparently “easy” was a word that could change its meaning over time, so that the “hard” of six years ago was the coveted “easy” of today.)

So then Dean had thought that women would help. But every time he found someone, every time he leaned in and prepared to go through the well-worn steps, his stomach rolled and churned and he had to back away.

He had thought Aaron might help. He’d had enough faith in this idea to see it through, despite the churning stomach and the guilt he felt like a knife in his back, like he was doing something wrong, like he was bound to someone and he shouldn’t be sinking into another man’s bed.

Because what did it matter that Cas didn’t want him – could never want him? Dean belonged to him body, mind, and soul anyway, whether either of them wanted it or not.

But it hadn’t mattered. The thing with Aaron – it hadn’t helped. If anything, it made it worse. The guilt hadn’t gone away and Aaron had seen right through him.

Dean rolled over in his bed, leaving the pillow behind him and thankful that at least Sam didn’t see him like this every night. With every day that passed without a word from Cas, the nightmares got worse, and came more frequently. Dean thought he was doing a decent job of hiding it during the day, but if they had still been in motel rooms every night, Sam would have been all too aware of what was going on.

And Dean didn’t want that. It was his problem, they were his nightmares. He didn’t need to be putting that on Sam. He just had to find a way to deal with it, on his own.

Letting out a shaky breath, he fought the urge to open his eyes. If there was anything to worry about, he would feel it. If there was anyone in the room, he would know. Resolving to force himself back to sleep, he went still for a moment before giving in and reaching behind him to grab the pillow. Wrapping himself around it, he knew he would pretend, though it would hurt that much more when he woke up again in an hour or so. He knew he would pretend, because he always did.

What else did he have to hold on to?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is basically me using Supernatural to work through some of my own problems (a new-found hobby of mine, as long as you read "hobby" a bit sarcastically), so I am just pleased as punch if you've enjoyed it. And if not, but you've read the whole thing anyway, then I commend you and thank you for indulging me in my introspection.


End file.
